Spectrum of Grey
by Fantastic Pants
Summary: People suck, friend. Every last one of 'em. [ClaudeBennet]
1. Chapter One: Misanthropy for Dummies

**Spectrum of Grey**

Chapter One

_"Misanthropy for Dummies"_

_"People suck, friend. Every last one of 'em."_

* * *

Some more than others, of course - the ones you actually expect something from, for instance.

The ones you trust.

The ones you believe in.

The ones you love.

Occasional Hitchcockian tendencies aside, pigeons are, statistically speaking, considerably less likely to stab you in the back.

A bigger feat than most people are capable of, obviously.

The list of people who haven't turned out to be a magnificent disappointment runs shorter each passing moment. Peter Petrelli has narrowly avoided it for now. He's not too bad, really, for a nuclear-bomb-to-be. Still, the bloody kid exudes his infantile idiocy like bad cologne.

Was I ever that naive?

Or was I _worse_?

But I shouldn't be asking questions I know the answers to. Especially when I don't like those answers much. Or at all.

On the list of grand disappointments, I can proudly declare myself to be among the very top.

Not something I've dwelt on much until now. Peter may absorb powers, but he spreads something a great deal more dangerous.

Hope.

Been a while since I could use that word without it magically turning into the crown jewel of cynicism, which is the only safe, sane use for it.

Hope, _real _hope, is more hazardous than any exploding man can ever aspire to be.

It makes you believe, even though life tells you that you're a moron for falling for it, time after time. Nobody can accuse humanity of being overly logical.

Hope makes you see an actual future, instead of a giant brick wall that never ends.

It makes you forget.

Worse. Makes you _remember_.

Now, without the distraction of a human stress ball, and with only sporadic flickers of a tedious view arriving from the window, it's hard to stop your mind from wandering to certain long-buried places.

It starts with flashes, orphaned and disconnected.

A sweaty thigh, shallow breathing. His mouth against my neck.

My mouth in – well, other places.

After all, I'd sworn I'd give him something to _really_ be wildly enthusiastic about.

A single, low chuckle escapes my throat. Closer to a bark, really.

Maybe Puppy Petrelli gave me some spare rabies.

Dog-related trains of thought are, unfortunately, not easy to derail. And they lead straight back to him.

That goofy grin, turning up whenever he was in over his head. The frequency of those decreased at a linear, almost scientific rate; bright eyed and bushy tailed didn't last long with him, gradually drowning under a thick protective veil of nearly robotic composure and impeccable sarcasm.

I scratch my neck, where his little taser dart hit. Cutting edge technology can cause one hell of an itch.

Other itches can't be scratched, or ignored. Might as well hack off the offending body part and be done with it.

A hint of harsh reality slips back into my mind, echoing with distant gunshots, and I get the distinct urge to kick something. Or someone.

A stroll down memory lane isn't good for my mental health. Whatever's left of it.

Problem is, once you're already there, you get the Hotel California deal. Escape artistry comes naturally to the invisible, but some places are trickier to break out of.

More recollections pop up uninvited.

A messed up assignment going from bad to worse, to something neither of us quite expected. You could call it a not-quite-conventional first date courtesy of Freezer Girl. I used to think it'd take a cold day in Hell to get him to open up, and, conveniently, our line of work was more than happy to provide one.

That gaze - an exclusive mix of bewilderment and concentration, like he was trying to figure out if this wasn't some elaborate trick or optical illusion I'd conjured up.

Never was quite able to lose that gaze. Not after the first time, not after the tenth.

Not after eight years.

Had to give him one for consistency.

One thought keeps repeating, buzzing in vicious circles and refusing to be swatted down.

A vague memory of a kiss - sloppy and awkward, urgent and misplaced. An experiment on breath holding, with indeterminable results. Worse than goddamn teenagers.

_Vague_. Ha. I wish.

Feels like yesterday.

I lean back, close my eyes.

Seven years.

Not nearly enough to let go.

My pitiful attempt to locate an island of inner peace is cut off as a fellow passenger foolishly decides that I'd make a comfortable seat.

It takes him a moment to reassess the situation, before bolting right up.

He turns around slowly, gazing at me with a look of unadulterated confusion.

Well, through me, technically.

But I can't be bothered to take offence.

People are just inherently assholes like that.

I clear my throat. Doesn't hurt to be polite in face of the opposition.

The man departs with strategic haste, probably harboring and savoring anecdotes of haunted trains for the kids.

Funny. Somehow, all methods of transportation I happen to be on turn out to be chock-full of ghosts. Startling coincidence, that.

A few more hours pass before it strikes me -

I'm running in the wrong direction.

A fit of deep, manic laughter takes over, like in a tacky old horror film.

Mutant rabies. No other explanation.

Fantastic.

I make my way out of the train, making sure to bump into my favorite seat-buddy for maximum effect.

The outside wind greets me with unsurpassed enthusiasm.

Welcome to Odessa, Texas.

Almost home, once upon a time.

It's been a while.

What the hell am I thinking?

This is catastrophic mistake.

Oh well. Not a new concept to me. 'Catastrophic Mistake' is my middle name.

I follow the inner compass my brain has conveniently forgotten to discard, navigating through a jungle of suburbia.

Juniper Lane looks a bit different these days. More police lines than usual, for one.

I take the 'Do Not Cross' suggestion into careful consideration before slipping inside.

Looks like the Apocalypse came to his home early.

I wrap myself in preemptive numbness, one of a thousand defense mechanisms that life has found necessary to equip me with.

Leaving the fresh war zone- no cleanup crew would be able to cover this mess up, I let a detached auto-pilot lead me to the local hospital.

I find them soon enough, huddled together around the hospital bed.

I barely recognize the boy now. Seven years count as a lifetime at his age.

And the pale, grim-faced woman bears only a passing resemblance to the Sandra Bennet I remember.

I can feel a lump forming in the back of my throat, erasing any pretence regarding sentimentality once presumed KIA.

Guilt has never been foreign when dealing with his family, but this is different.

Closer to regret.

At least the show dog attaché is loyally present.

Some things never change.

Like him. He's the exact same, with only those damn glasses added to his arsenal. That, and apparently a brand new lead-caused hole in his side.

But where's Claire?

Peter mentioned something about a girl in Texas. Coincidences aren't as common as one might think, especially not when our kind is involved.

Latent panic sets in.

Did they take her?

I should've done something. Anything.

Anything but play dead.

Great. Self loathing. How innovative.

I find a corner to settle in and lean against the wall, having long since accepted voyeurism as a part-time job.

This turns out to be harder to watch than I'd imagined. He repeats a mantra of reassuring words, playing the rock.

He's always done that part well, but it's only effective up to a certain point.

And that point has clearly been reached and thoroughly crushed.

Eventually, they leave as a surprise visitor arrives.

Another blast from the past.

Thompson.

My fingernails dig deep into my skin, determined to distract me from the glaring red flag that's waving ecstatically in my field of vision.

I flatten myself against the wall, hoping it'd have the decency to swallow me, for once.

It stays remarkably solid, not being cooperative in the least.

Can't even count on inanimate objects.

I listen to the string of coldly calculated questions, and the corresponding answers, building up through confusion and anger to the usual compliance.

Only one thing matters.

They don't have her.

Which means she still stands a chance. Roughly that of an overweight pigeon attempting to cross the Atlantic, but it's better than nothing.

The interrogation comes to a conclusion once the doctor insists he gets some rest.

Strange, but getting rest doesn't seem like a particular priority of his. Once we're alone, his face takes on a sharp quality. Making room for the hunter.

Always been a perceptive bastard.

His posture grows tense, eyes scanning the room with efficiency that's ultimately futile.

"Where are you?"

The question echoes from wall to wall with all the hesitation of a Big Bad Wolf looking for his little Riding Hood.

I've overstayed my welcome.

No time for hesitation. I need to get the hell out of here.

"I _know _you're there."

I keep motionless and analyze the words. They're uttered with the familiar drawl, infused with confidence.

It's obvious now.

He's bluffing.

And I'm calling it.

It takes a few seconds for the dangerous certainty to melt away with a mirthless, silent chuckle that turns into a pained grimace.

Not everybody enjoys talking to empty air, poetic as it may be.

He brings his hand to his forehead, leaning back in his bed and letting out a frustrated breath.

I've seen that face before. Too many times to count.

Never on him.

He's lost.

Wouldn't admit it in a hundred years, of course. Too controlled. Too untouchable. Too Bennet.

There are perks to invisibility, besides the questionably useful yet infinitely entertaining ability to haunt trains.

It allows you to see him with his guard down.

And that's a privilege as exotic as flying purple elephants.

His expression barely changes, but I can still decipher the key part.

It's pain, and not the kind that originates from bullet wounds.

And that's personal experience speaking.

The old compulsion to protect him makes a crushing, undesirable comeback, even though I'm the one who could use some protection at the moment.

Partners. You can never truly get rid of them, no matter how much pepper spray you employ. Or bullets, for that matter.

Speaking of bullets…

Gunshot wound. Memory loss. Mysterious disappearance. What does it all add up to?

My cultivated instinct to automatically assume the worst is malfunctioning.

What takes over is a mix of rusty detective skills and a hunch with no base in rationality.

Like in the good old days.

Then the dots connect.

He didn't give her up.

I release a trapped breath, trying to keep it from being too audible.

This is the keenest feeling of relief I've had in years.

The ultimate Yes Man might've gotten a bit of a 'no' in his repertoire after all.

Doesn't necessarily change anything.

I can still leave. Get piss drunk. Learn to forget again. Wouldn't be too hard.

I have running listed on the top my resume, after all, in bright and bold letters.

Can't run forever, though. You wind up out of breath.

Might as well make my last stop here.

Throwing caution its proper place, I cross the room and reach out, placing my hand on his shoulder.

His surprise lasts only a split second, followed by brief attempt of visual orientation. It's then replaced by wry irritation.

He watches patiently as I materialize.

"Think you can go without shootin' me for a couple of minutes?"

Giving a slight wince as he pulls himself upright, he proceeds to follow the Company guidelines to concise answer-giving, letter by letter.

Which of course means giving no answer at all.

"I was wondering when you'd get tired of hide and seek."

"Seems to me tag is more your style these days."

He regards me with an expertly bred phlegmatic air, brow rising slightly, corner of his mouth quirking with only a bare trace of humor. The tired, bitter kind. The kind you learn to embrace and cherish when under the employment of the esteemed Primatech Paper Company.

"You're it."

No matter how jaded and world-weary you think you get, there'll always be a son of a bitch more cynical than you.

It's nice that you can always count on him to fill that spot.

I snort.

"I've noticed."

Next minute is a trade in strained silence.

Almost forgotten how unnervingly intense those eyes can be.

Earnestness invades his voice as he finally speaks up. Might've bordered on vulnerability, if he let it.

"Why are you here?"

I sit down at the edge of the bed, examining the question under a mental microscope.

I'm not fond of second chances.

Neither of us has turned out exactly what he wanted to be. Life just ain't that accommodating. It prefers being a spiteful bitch. Can't say I don't sympathize.

Unfortunately, once hope catches up with you, you're pretty much doomed.

"We need to talk."

People suck. Every last one of them.

But, in the royally screwed up manner as only humanity can provide, it can't stop you from loving them.

Oh, bloody hell.

I never learn.


	2. Chapter Two: Brave New World

Chapter Two

_"Brave New World"_

**15 years ago**

* * *

My first week of employment for the Primatech Paper Company was remarkably uneventful, and spectacularly filled with paperwork.

Quite a bit like one would expect from a paper company, actually.

As I placed yet another stack of paper on my partner's desk, I wondered if this is what Thompson meant by things most people would find cruel.

"We need to talk."

When the guidance counselor at my school had asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, I had several answers. Novelty value notwithstanding, playing the part of a glorified secretary for an invisible man wasn't on top of the list.

The invisible man in question – currently not at his maximal transparency – glanced up inquisitively a moment after the papers made contact with the desk.

"Breakin' up already, rookie?" he questioned with a mournful shake of his head. "Too bad. And here I thought we had a future together." Heaving a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, and looked at me earnestly, "But I understand. It's not me, it's you."

"No. It's definitely you."

His expression shifted, making a half-hearted attempt at shock and offense but effectively reaching neither. His voice carried the appropriate amount of heartbreak though. "Subtle. So much for sparing my feelings."

He wasn't making it easy, but then again, having just joined a top secret organization specializing in evolutionary anomalies, I wasn't exactly expecting things to go challenge-free.

"All I've done since I was hired is run errands and file paperwork. And you keep," I paused, knowing full well that the next word would be unfortunate, but found no suitable replacement, "disappearing."

Workplace etiquette clearly failed to apply to people of invisibility, and he was well aware of it. "You know how it is. Places to go, people to see, lab assistants to harass. Busy schedule."

With a schedule comprised entirely of paper, I wasn't feeling terribly sympathetic.

"I'm sure there's _something_ I can do."

He seemed to be coming around to my way of thinking.

"Alright. Want to be useful?"

"Yes, that would be nice."

I watched with a cautious degree of hopefulness as he dug into a desk drawer and extracted a book. "Here," he handed it over, also tossing a misleadingly pleasant smile in the mix. "Have a blast."

I conducted a brief inspection of the offered tome before returning his gaze.

"Japanese."

"Japanese," he confirmed.

"Any particular reason?"

"Just in case."

I waited a second or two, making sure I'd heard him correctly. There was no doubt, of course, but I needed the time-out.

"You want me to learn Japanese, just in case."

His corresponding nod was more than mildly aggravating in its cheerfulness. His words were equally reassuring, "You never know when you might be attacked by a flying samurai. Communication skills are invaluable in our line of work."

"Are you always this helpful?"

"You always this needy?"

I knew a dead end when I saw one, and this one was rapidly losing vitality.

I retreated to my desk and opened the book. Anything was better than filing. I considered taking up origami next.

A few hours into the linguistic odyssey, the letters were beginning to dance and melt like candlelight-cast shadow. I wasn't normally this poetic, but similes were the only thing keeping me awake, by the sheer irritation they effortlessly supplied.

A tap on my shoulder tore me out of the stupor – doubly effective as it came from an indeterminable source. I jumped to my feet, inwardly cursing my instinctive reaction as Claude materialized in front of me, bearing a suitably devilish expression.

"Rise and shine, sensei. We've got a shiny new assignment."

Trying to regain my composure by smoothing out my suit and feigning nonchalance, I still managed to sound like an overeager schoolboy attempting to pass for a competent adult, "What kind of assignment?"

He gave a wide grin, providing a great deal of toothy exposure. It was meant to inspire something, but I doubted confidence was what he intended.

"The fun kind."

With that promise, we made our way to the parking lot, weeding through a sea of black, white and gray until we reached our destination.

"That's our car?"

It was purple.

Not that I had anything against the color, but it seemed a little…

"Horrific, isn't it? I asked for a love bug, but the bastards didn't return my calls." He shrugged as he opened the car door. "Get used to it. Nothing but deaf ears in this company."

We settled in the car, him in the driver's seat, me in shotgun.

"Don't touch this button," he cautioned, shooting an informative glance at a harmless looking button located next to the radio.

"What does it do?"

"Nothing special. Just makes the car go over the sound barrier."

"Really?"

"Of course. And the assignment is to hunt down the Easter Bunny."

I gave him a look.

"Fancy gadgets are for the higher-ups. We foot soldiers get this," he reached inside his coat pocket and placed a large syringe in my hand, "and this."

The next object was no less questionable.

"Mentos, the Freshmaker?"

"Never leave home without it."

"Let me guess," I released a slow sigh. "In case we encounter a flying samurai with bad breath?"

"Got it in one, Bennet," he sounded almost genuinely impressed. "Maybe there's some hope for you after all."

And so we drove off.

The ride served as a window for an actual debriefing - the assignment was a bag and tag, and I found it difficult to conceal the rising tide of excitement, mixed with a silent undercurrent of anxiety.

This was it. What I'd signed up for.

Well, this and Mentos, apparently.

We arrived at an old apartment building, seemingly abandoned and apparently still standing only thanks to outdated laws of physics.

Scaling the stairs, we crossed the exciting sights of peeling paint, failing electricity and cockroach infestations, until we reached the fourth floor.

We stopped by an inconspicuous apartment door.

My mouth was drying up.

"What do I do?"

"Whatever I tell you to do. You're good at doing what you're told, aren't you, Bennet?"

"I am."

"Good boy," he emphasized by delivering a pat to my face.

I might've found the gesture offensive, if I had room for anything other than adrenaline in my system.

He motioned for me to draw the gun, remaining unarmed himself.

"Self defense _only_, rookie. Don't even think about getting trigger-happy. These are just," he halted, encountering the barrier of troublesome terminology, "not-very-ordinary people. Not criminals, not enemies. We're doing this for their own good," there was intensity in his voice, something I haven't heard before.

This was important to him.

"I realize that."

"They might not feel the same way, though. Watch your back."

I nodded.

Leaving it at that, he led another expedition into his pocket, this time taking out a lock picking kit.

"We're breaking and entering?"

"_Lock picking_ and entering," he corrected with a hint of professional pride. "Watch and learn."

He worked on the lock with carefree expertise, obviously not a stranger to the circumstances.

Eventually, the lock emitted a click.

Claude spread his arms, flashing a smile. "Like magic."

"Burglary magic," I countered.

He awarded me with a reproachful glare. "You're a true romantic, Bennet."

"I try."

There was unusual pressure in the area of my collar. I loosened it up a bit.

He raised a brow. "Nervous?"

"No," I responded, letting a confident smile do the rest of the work.

"You're grinning," he noted dryly.

"So?"

"You grin when you're nervous."

I cleared my face, turning it into a blank a mask as possible. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"'course you don't," he shook his head agreeably, then turned to open the door. "Alright. Stay here and wait for my All Clear."

Following this last set of instructions, he went invisible.

"Wait, what's the-"

…All Clear.

He was gone. I was talking to myself.

Great. The optimal way to start a first assignment, no doubt.

I stayed put, gripping the handgun and listening intently to what turned out to be the beating of my own heart. It sounded more like an overloaded train, or a hyperactive alarm clock.

Other than that, everything was eerily silent.

Belatedly, I remembered to breathe.

A few minutes passed without unusual developments, straining the silence even further.

Then, I heard a sound from within the apartment.

It took me a few moments to identify it.

It was a pigeon noise.

The volume of the odd sound increased.

I finally interpreted it as my cue and I entered the apartment.

The place was a mess, and if a special person did in fact reside here, his ability evidently had something to do with withstanding poisonous fumes.

I did my best not to choke as I inhaled a healthy lungful of dust.

Claude appeared beside me, glancing about breezily.

"That was your All Clear?"

"Yeah. Something wrong with it?"

"Nothing whatsoever."

I followed his example and surveyed the surrounding environment.

There was another strong presence in the apartment beside us.

Cats.

There must have been at least a dozen of them in the living room alone. The majority was scattered on various chairs and ratty couch, napping contently and not at all minding the intrusion into their territory.

Another one was unfortunately located on a shelf a few inches a way from me.

The orange creature hissed and flung its paw at me.

A trail of crimson painted itself on the back of my hand, accompanied by a faithful sting.

I was starting to like this job less and less.

"Not a cat person, are you?"

I groaned, taking a step away from the sole source of danger in the apartment.

"Doesn't look that way."

A disturbing notion slipped past the borders of sanity and went straight to my mouth.

"Can cats manifest special abilities?"

"You never know, mate. Evolution is a great and mysterious force." Grave seriousness infested his voice, hitting a post-mortem note toward the conclusion, "So are cats."

I took that, with considerable relief, as a no.

A framed family photo sitting on a grimy tabletop caught my eye. I picked it up, giving it an overlook. It depicted a married couple, three kids, and a sweet looking elderly woman. The glass was cracked in the middle. I wondered whether there was some hidden symbolism there.

Finding none, I put the photograph down, looking up to check on the whereabouts of my partner.

He was currently facing the refrigerator, which was mysteriously open.

"What are you doing?"

He didn't even bother looking at me as he responded with blithe casualness, "Investigating."

"Investigating the fridge?"

He turned around, assuming his all-knowing, life-coaching pose. "Let me give you a tip, rookie - most important clues can be found in a person's fridge." Satisfied at having shared these pearls of wisdom, he turned back to his object of investigation.

"That," he continued in his search for truth, soon coming up with a half-empty tequila bottle, "and the booze."

"That's very educational. Have you considered making a Sunday-"

I stopped talking the moment he brought a finger to his mouth.

Footsteps were forming an echo trail in the hallway.

Claude made his visual exit within an instant, and I leveled my gun at the door.

The old woman from the picture appeared in the doorway.

I lowered the gun.

"Ma'am, we're-"

Before I'd gotten the chance to form a sentence, the old lady opened her mouth.

As the window next to me cracked, it occurred to me that it wasn't symbolism I should've been looking for.

I found myself on my knees, hands pressed against my ears as tightly as humanly possible.

I must have dropped the gun. Not the most strategic of moves, under the circumstances.

At that moment, I couldn't care less.

I had other things to focus on. Such as the feeling that was sensory equivalent of having a couple of electric drills applied to my brain directly through my ears.

I hadn't experienced a sensation this thoroughly and mortifyingly unpleasant since high school.

The cats didn't even budge, observing the occurrences with calculated apathy.

It made sense now. They were all deaf.

And so was she.

The intensity of the throb diminished slightly, helping me regain a shred of mental function.

Our hostess didn't seem to be in a very hospitable mood, but I needed to stall her in any way I could.

Scrambling for rusty bits of memory, I tried to keep my hands steady long enough to convey a simple message.

'We're not here to hurt you.' I signed.

If the sincerity of the statement managed to get through at all, she was doing a good job of not showing it.

Still, she didn't make a move, instead keeping me under a highly paranoid, not entirely stable glare.

This gave me an opportunity to serve another pacifying statement.

'We just want to help.'

Maybe it was the presence of a gun, or maybe it was the inappropriate use of plural form, but her expression changed. For the worse.

Oh God.

For a fleeting moment, I wondered if this was my destiny - to die on my first assignment, having my brain turned to mush by a crazy cat lady.

It didn't strike me as fair.

But nobody had ever said life was fair.

Suddenly, her eyes rolled up.

In the following moment, her feet gave in as Claude appeared behind her, catching her in mid-fall.

A wave of relief washed over me. I might've felt bad for her, if it hadn't been for the numbness spreading evenly throughout my skull.

I remained stationary, desperately waiting for the world to recalibrate and stop spinning. It settled down eventually, leaving only mild fuzz around the edges of my vision.

"How're the eardrums?" the inquiry came at a particularly low pitch, for which I was grateful.

I cracked my eyes open and looked up with exaggerated slowness, meeting Claude's worried gaze. His eyes were stuck in a grimacing, half-lidded state. Clearly I wasn't the sole victim of the shrieking harpy.

"Whoever thought calling them drums was a good idea needs to be shot," I muttered, surprised I could speak without giving myself a brain aneurysm.

He managed a grin, its quality located somewhere between pained empathy and approval.

"Come on. You'll be fine," he extended a hand and I grasped onto it, disengaging from the floor with some reluctance.

Balance was returning in small and uncertain doses, and I had to steady myself against him. Sadly, he wasn't much of a rock, either.

"So how's the insurance policy around here?" I wondered out loud.

He snorted, "Better not ask."

I winced.

"Don't worry. Next assignment, we take earmuffs."

It sounded like a damned good idea at the time.

"The pink and furry kind?"

"That's the best kind, friend. And the perfect cover."

"Thompson would approve," I agreed. "And while we're at it, can we get a pit bull?"

"Make a wish list. Santa might feel generous this year." He tossed the car keys over. "You drive. I'll take granny."

The drive back made me swear a vendetta against the inventor of car horns, but was otherwise fairly peaceful. Luckily, our captive didn't have the habit of talking in her sleep.

Back in Primatech, a quick evaluation by the medical team revealed no permanent damage, disregarding the one my self-esteem had taken. Being brought to your knees by a senior citizen wasn't the brightest spot on anyone's resume.

Next in line was the report to Thompson. It went a few decibels over the desirable range, but ran mercifully short.

We left The Company's headquarters together.

The outside air provided the first breathing space of the day, and I was acutely thankful for it.

"So when did you pick up sign language?"

"A while back," I replied noncommittally. "Communication skills are invaluable in our line of work."

"Well said," he offered his stamp of approval. "Got any plans for tonight, Bennet?"

"Not really." To be perfectly honest, I didn't remember. "Why?"

"Well, we've got the matchin' hangovers already, might as well earn them."

The logic was hard to dispute, especially with the dull ringing still very much present in my ears, doing an impressive job of obscuring not only sound, but thought process as well.

Not being at our most adventurous, we picked a bar across the street.

It was a traditional establishment, thickly clouded by cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. The sort of place I hadn't frequented in years.

A football game kept most of the denizens hooked to a monitor.

I never really understood sports, but it was clearly inherited from Neanderthal days, and old habits died hard.

We settled at the bar, ordering a neutral round of beer.

Reaching for the beer bottle, I noticed that my hand was shaking slightly.

I wasn't the only one who'd taken notice.

A pat on the back wasn't what I'd expected, but he gave me one nonetheless. "First day guarantees a bit of shell shock. It's tradition. Part of what makes it fun, I suppose."

My definition of fun didn't quite match his, from the look of things. But who was I to argue with tradition?

Taking me by surprise was becoming a hobby of his, and now was no exception.

"You did good today, rookie."

"Is this the routine motivational speech? You don't have to-"

"I mean it," he cut me off without much edge. "Not half-bad for a first time."

I couldn't pretend it didn't mean something, coming from him.

"Thanks."

The comfortably quiet yet short-lived period of alcohol consumption was apparently the perfect time for him to come up with an entirely unrelated, probing inquiry, "Ever do something crazy, Bennet? Something unexpected?"

"Well," not fully prepared to give the question a serious consideration, especially in the questionable state I was in, I gave the only answer I could without hesitation, "I once helped an invisible man defeat a wicked witch with a personal army of cats."

"Let's drink to that," he announced, ceremonially lifting his bottle. "Cheers."

"Cheers," I echoed, taking a synchronized sip.

A silence stretched out, bringing a batch of troubling thoughts.

He caught on quickly. "What's with the lemon face?"

"I'm wondering what I'm supposed to tell my wife about the day I've had at work."

He motioned one shoulder in a semblance of a shrug. "Just pick a random word. Should do. People don't usually make very good listeners, I've found."

"A random word – like peanuts?"

"Yeah, like that."

"I'll be sure to give it a shot."

He tapped his forefinger against the tip of his bottle, looking away and temporarily taking on a distant look. It evaporated with a new query, "How's she like, your wife?"

"Sandra is," I embarked on another arm wrestling session with terminology, eventually settling for the concise choice, "wonderful."

"Most men would love a chance to bitch about their wives," he remarked, mouth curved sideways.

"I suppose I'm not most men, then," I deduced, using whatever logical circuits I had left. "She's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

He eyed me with something akin to perplexity, then nodded solemnly.

"To Sandra, then."

"To Sandra."

We drank up, and a new round began.

"What will happen to our favorite old lady?"

"Nothing much. The usual registration routine. Also, bit of voice training would do her some good."

I was impressed at his understatement skills.

"She reminds me of my grandmother."

Surprise crossed his features, looking notably out of place.

"You have a grandmother?"

I decided to take this one personally.

"Yes. I have her stashed away in my closet."

For once, his smile really did have a placating effect, "Relax, rookie, you just don't seem the grandma-having type, that's all."

I wondered what exactly it took to qualify for a grandmother, these days.

"I'm pretty sure it's biologically required to have a grandmother. I could be wrong, of course. You're the expert."

He didn't argue, pursuing a different line instead, "Guess I always envisioned of you as a miniature adult poppin' out of your mum, complete with a tiny matching suit. Kind of an adorable picture, really."

I could think of several adjectives to apply to the image he'd kindly provided, but _adorable_, oddly enough, didn't quite work for me.

And it seemed like he wasn't done yet.

"You're a poster boy for The Company, Bennet. Make that _any_ company." He raised his bottle, tilting it distractedly. "If it walks like a secret agent and quacks like a secret agent…"

"I quack like a secret agent."

It was a serious accusation, coming from a man who used bird noises as an All Clear.

"'fraid you do." It might've been my newly acquired hearing impairment, but I couldn't detect a single apologetic note in his speech. "You're far too normal to be normal."

I pondered this briefly.

The response came naturally.

"What are you talking about? I'm just a paper salesman."

He studied me for a while. Being under his magnifying lens was a strange feeling, but not necessarily an unpleasant one. I returned the favor. Staring contests were always a strong point of mine.

We kept at it for a good minute or so.

He was the one to finally break it, using a grin tinged by sarcasm and concluding with a hearty chuckle.

"You're gonna be good at this."

"You think so?"

He exhaled audibly before responding.

"Trust me."

I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be flattered or insulted by this. With all the friendliness that went into his assurance, it still bore a remarkable resemblance to a two-edged sword.

I chose neither option.

A third contender barged in – curiosity. It might have had hazardous effects on cats, but that was a risk I was more than willing to take, especially after today's assignment.

"What happened to your old partner?"

His mouth straightened into a thin line, expression growing hard to read.

"You really want to know?"

"Now I'm not so sure."

He swung the bottle to his lips, taking a swift swig.

"Tragic work accident. Primatech is famous for those. Those paper cuts are a real killer."

An air of flippant callousness carefully blanketed his words, but it wasn't fooling me.

"I'm sorry."

"Forget sorry. Just try to stay alive. Would rather not lose another partner just yet. They're a real pain to come by." His eyes widened a little as he appended, "And fragile, like teacups."

I didn't know what tipped it off, exactly. It was probably an avalanche formed by the insanity of the whole day combined, with his last sentence being the trigger. It started with a lone chuckle, gathering strength and transforming into full-blown laughter.

And I wasn't even particularly drunk.

My laughter came to a halt as I noticed he was watching me with uncharacteristic gravity.

He was waiting for a confirmation.

It was suddenly of the utmost importance to say the right thing.

"I'll do my best."

The seriousness wasn't alleviated right away, and I didn't realize I had my breath trapped until he finally broke the façade with a warm smile.

I was reminded of our first encounter in Thompson's office.

"Nice to see you act human. Wasn't sure you had it in you."

I celebrated my newly acknowledge humanity by draining the content of my bottle.

"So, startin' to miss paperwork?"

The entire three seconds it took me to answer that question weren't used for reflection, but for the formation of a smile.

"Not even a little."

He threw his arm over my shoulder, wryly matching my smile.

"You know, Bennet, I think I might grow to like you yet."

I didn't answer him at the time, being familiar enough with the unbreakable rules of the rookie protocol. But the feeling was mutual.

The night was drawing to an end, and he wasn't one to let it go out without a bang.

A final toast was in order.

"To a brave new world."

I couldn't agree more.

The strangely lyrical click of two beer bottles meeting gave the night a proper sendoff.

"To a brave new world."


	3. Chapter Three: The Big Picture

Chapter Three

_"The Big Picture" _

_

* * *

_

As it turned out, there were several problems on the road to a brave new world - it was paved in invisible asphalt, it had a roadkill-friendly policy, it could only be traveled in baby steps.

And more often than not, it was one step forward and two steps back.

As I lifted my head from the desk, inhaling a breath of stale air and catching a glimpse of a bleak, sun deprived morning, I had a feeling this wasn't going to be a very good day.

Actually, a feeling wasn't the best word for it. A hunch wasn't either. The most accurate description would've been a calculated guess. And I was rarely wrong with those.

Every muscle in my body was already protesting the rude awakening. My neck especially felt stiff, as if a dying rodent had crawled into it and was now enjoying its fair share of rigor mortis.

I dragged myself out of my chair, barely managing the route to the bathroom. It felt more like an obstacle course under the present circumstances.

I splashed cold water onto my face, hoping to avoid the mirror's temporary resident, but unfortunately, it didn't work. My reflection squinted at me intently through the glass.

It looked as if somebody had acquainted my face with an imaginary brick.

I'd definitely had better days.

I returned to my desk, automatically going through a stack of memos, each one more meaningless than the last.

About a minute later, I lifted my gaze.

"Morning," I greeted the air in front of me.

For a few seconds, the air remained nonchalantly immobile, before gradually assuming a more concrete shape; specifically, the shape of Claude seated on the edge of my desk and wearing a dubious expression. "How did you know I was here?"

I leaned back in my chair, shutting my eyes for a second while constructing an answer. "Would you believe that I've finally developed invisibility intuition?"

"Please," his voice lacked in belief quotient. "You're about as _intuitive_ as my left toe, rookie."

"I'm not sure I want to know about your left toe, Claude."

"Well, you don't have much choice in the matter, now do you?" Thankfully, he didn't elaborate on that point, but instead proceeded to stare at me, his face spelling out 'spill it' or something to this effect.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you," I made a genuine effort to sound apologetic. "It's highly confidential information. There's nothing I can do about it."

He narrowed his eyes. "I liked you better when you were young and clueless."

"It's only been five months, Claude."

"Still." He made a face, taking the drama up a notch, "You're not the man I knew five months ago."

I shook my head, determined not to let him drag me into this.

He kept looking at me expectantly.

Fine.

"It's not the months, honey, it's the mileage."

I hoped he was happy.

I sure as hell wasn't.

Invisible people didn't seem to have a well realized concept of personal space. Claude demonstrated that by leaning towards me and casually brushing his thumb against my cheek, before withdrawing to the mildly less intrusive habit of table occupation.

"You haven't shaved today," he assessed after a brief pause.

"Didn't have the time."

He studied me under a questioning frown. "Did you _sleep_ here?"

The evidence stacked up against me, and it was too late to come up with an efficient cover-up. "Yeah," I brought my hand to the back of my neck - still distinctly sore. "I did."

He led a coordinated attack against my pencil cup, satisfying some brand of obsessive compulsive craving. Having rearranged the pencils in a way that suited him, he tilted his head sideways inquisitively.

"Troubles at home?"

"No."

As I said it, I knew it was a misstep. Too sharp. Too snappy.

Damn it.

I couldn't determine whether he could see right through it, since he had slid into his ready-made _knowing_ look. Not quite as omniscient as Thompson's, but still thoroughly annoying.

"Plain old workoholism, then," he announced, letting me off the hook, "Much better."

Without so much as an explanation, he vanished.

A moment later, Jenny, my secretary, appeared at the door. "Mr. Bennet?" She shot a quizzical glance to the area previously occupied by Claude.

"Any messages?" I asked, redirecting her attention from matters best left unseen.

"Mr. Scott from the Pennsylvania branch called. He wanted to discuss, uh," she glanced down to a piece of paper she was carrying, giving a mildly uncertain frown, "abnormal paper clip sales."

Abnormal paper clip sales.

Some people took their cover a touch too seriously.

"Alright. Anything else?"

"Um, no, that's it. Would you like some coffee?"

"That'd be great, thank you."

"Okay," she smiled, turning to leave.

Claude took the opportunity to appear behind her, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"Boo."

She span around abruptly, nearly colliding into him.

"M- Mr. Rains. I didn't see you there."

"Fancy that." He spread his arms, producing a shiny smile. "I'm the invisible man."

"If you say so."

She left in a hurry. I didn't blame her.

I kept Claude under a judgmental glare until he finally decided to care.

"What?"

"She's a nice girl, Claude."

"Are you sayin' I'm not?"

"A nice girl?"

He gave me a dirty look.

"I don't know how to answer that," I wasn't prepared to let this go just yet. "Maybe you should try counseling."

He went into retaliation mode, choosing a particularly offensive line of defense. "She's got a crush on you."

"No, she doesn't." He raised his brow strategically. "She _doesn't_." He still didn't say anything. It was up to me to play the grown-up. "And as far as I know, we're not in Junior High."

"Could've fooled me."

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

He mercifully veered off subject, "They're thinking of firing some of the regular staff, you know. Better brace yourself."

"What are you talking about?"

"Budget cuts."

"Are you serious? The _Company_ is having budget cuts?" There was something wholesomely ridiculous about that.

"'fraid so. That's pig capitalism for you." Having made the astute assessment of the day, he abandoned the subject in favor of a shiny new one. "How do you even stand being in here? It's like an air conditioned coffin," he passed his gaze throughout the room, performing an unfavorable inspection. "You really oughta liven this place up a bit."

I didn't bring up the fact that his office looked like a nuclear disaster site on good days, and a teenager's room on bad ones.

Not that he was ever _in_ his office, since partner harassment was clearly the more productive activity.

"Any suggestions?"

Of course he had some. "Motivational posters. Decorative _and_ good for morale."

"That's a great idea. How about 'Invisibility – Who needs personal hygiene?'"

Not that he had any particular problem with it, for the most part, but I couldn't let an unprovoked slant against my office go unpunished.

He clenched his jaw, transmitting a death glare my way. "That's not motivational."

"Well, it motivates me."

"It might motivate _me_ to punch you, Bennet."

"So you're here to threaten me, attack my secretary and insult my office?"

He appeared to give it some serious thought.

"Yeah, mostly."

"Good for you."

"Alright," he tapped his hand against the table with vigorous decisiveness, "gotta split. Busy day."

"I can see that."

He faded gradually, relishing the effect, before disappearing entirely.

The next few hours filled solely with the situational equivalent of white space.

This fascinating activity was eventually interrupted by a piece of balled up paper hitting me across the forehead.

I turned my head in the appropriate angle.

"How bored _are_ you?"

He materialized with a heavy sigh. "On a scale of one to I'm-this-close-to-attempin'-small-talk-with-Thompson?"

"Ouch." I couldn't say I didn't empathize.

Over four weeks without new assignments. It was as if evolution had gone into deep hibernation, and we were enjoying the backlash.

Entropic boredom was creeping in through the walls, slipping into the atmosphere. Reminiscent of a Kafka novel, possibly with a tinge of Edgar Allan Poe.

It was only a matter of time before we started admitting giant cockroaches. I was looking forward to that.

"Don't you have that…" I tried to come up with the name, to no avail, "guy?"

He gave a slight wince, " Stanley."

"Yes, Stanley. How's he doing?"

"Picturesque," he replied blankly.

"Really. So that's it then? That's his ability?"

"Looks like. Evolution isn't perfect, mate."

"That's," I found myself torn between several options - sad, sadly grotesque and sadly anticlimactic, "more of a disability, technically, isn't it?"

"Only without the parking privileges."

Poor Stanley.

"Wanna go take a look?" he suggested, voice sugar-coated with false enthusiasm.

I had little in the way of alternative pastimes, and desperation was contagious.

"I suppose."

We made our way down to Primatech's more exotic regions, passing by a number of empty cells before we reached the right one. Behind the isolating glass, Stanley, a chubby middle-aged man, was seated on the examination bed, cupping his face in his hands.

"He doesn't seem to be taking it very well," I noted.

Claude gave me a sideway glance. "You'd be a bit blue too if you just found out your sparklin' new superpower was being a human mood ring."

"Probably," it was hard to argue with. "Not quite as literally, though."

Claude folded his arms and leaned forward, forehead pressing against the thick glass. "He's kind of like one of them lamps. You know, the ones that look like radioactive hedgehogs."

"A fiber optic lamp."

"Yeah, one of those," he confirmed murkily, staring ahead. "It's hypnotic."

He did have a point there. The shift from blue to purple was oddly mesmerizing.

"If you like it so much, you should put him in your office."

"Maybe for Christmas." He disconnected from the glass, turning around and heading in an indeterminable direction. I followed him. "Anyway, yours could use the decoration more."

"'Evolution-'" I came up with a new poster, "'The world could always use another color-changing man.'"

"That's a good one," he approved. We kept walking until he arrived at a mental juncture, pointing an accusing finger at innocent space, "I got it."

"What?"

"I know what else he reminds me of."

This couldn't be good.

"Yes?"

"Karma Chameleon."

God.

"The song?"

"One and only."

"That's brilliant."

"Isn't it?"

"You do realize that if you start singing it, I _will_ be forced to shoot you?"

He looked at me critically, broadcasting that he's offended that I'd even think to suggest such a foul thing.

"I'd rather shoot myself first."

"Good."

"Okay, last stop," he announced.

The stop in question was next to an interrogation room, currently occupied by a nervous looking young man.

"Who's that?"

"New subject. They brought 'im in few hours ago." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, "Bennet, meet Ethan Kimball, college boy and a right pain in the arse." The gleeful smile spreading across Claude's face was of distinctly malicious origin, "He's all yours."

"So this is why you brought me down here." Trust between partners was obviously grossly overrated.

The smile lingered, "Surprise."

"Why me?"

"Because," he patted me on the shoulder, now fully grinning, "you're a true master of diplomacy, Bennet."

I sighed and waited for it.

He didn't disappoint.

"'Revenge – You never see it coming until it's too late.'"

"That's nice."

"'course, you can always tell me that confidential secret of yours. Might make me a bit more sympathetic to your plight."

I considered it. "Thermal vision contact lenses."

"Interesting." His response consisted of punching in a code into the keypad by the door. "Don't worry. I'll be right over your shoulder, all guardian angel like."

"Claude, you'd have more luck as a nice girl than as a guardian angel."

"You're gettin' too smart mouthed for your own good there, rookie." He began to turn transparent, a phenomenon which sadly failed to apply to his verbal arsenal, "Go ahead, knock yourself out. Break a leg."

I wasn't a hundred percent sure whose leg he was referring to, though I did have a very strong personal preference in the matter.

The door opened, and heaving an internal sigh, I went inside.

Ethan Kimball, college boy and a right pain in the ass, promptly looked up at me.

"I _demand_ to see a lawyer."

Well, hello to you to.

I took my time placing his file on the table and taking a seat, maintaining a healthy silence in the process.

"Now why would you need a lawyer, Mr. Kimball?"

"Because I was kidnapped. Placed in a hostile environment against my will." This sounded like a well rehearsed speech. I wasn't greatly impressed. "This is unacceptable." A whiny, petulant note obfuscated his next plea, "I want my lawyer."

"I'm afraid that's not how it works."

He blinked, possibly reconsidering his options. "What do you want from me?" It looked like he'd gotten some fear in his defiance.

"We'd like you to answer some questions for us."

"I haven't done anything wrong."

Which meant the exact opposite, of course.

"Nobody said you have."

His gaze darted around the room, frantically searching for loopholes.

I decided to start without waiting for his approval.

"Have you ever exhibited any abnormal ability? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Flight, telekinesis, regeneration," I began; recent events prompted me to take a break from the generic grocery list in order to add some entertainment value, "spontaneous and mysterious change in skin color?"

I could hear a soft snort in the air beside me.

Kimball didn't seem as appreciative of this line of questioning. "Is this a joke? One of these hidden camera things?" His eye twitched. Was I giving him a nervous tick? I could live with that. "It's not funny."

"I assure you, Mr. Kimball," I leaned towards him. Strangely, he moved in the opposite direction. "I have no intention of being amusing."

He didn't take that well, attempting hyperventilation through his nose for some time. "You're all insane," he declared finally.

"I'll be sure to inform my superiors of that," I offered. "Mr. Kimball, it's in your best interest to cooperate. I suggest you do that, and make matters easier for all of us."

"I don't think so."

"If you don't provide us with the answers, we may have to employ," I sighed, constructing a tactical pause, "alternative methods to find them. And you might not find those methods very enjoyable."

He was growing impressively white.

"I want to make a phone call."

I could sense the headache beginning to develop, taking its first steps in the vicinity of my temples. It wouldn't stay there for long, by the look of things.

"That's not possible."

"I'm not talking to anyone until I see my lawyer."

"We'll see about that."

Suddenly, there was a sharp sound; oddly reminiscent to the one made by the palm of someone's hand when connecting with the back of someone's head.

Interestingly enough, Kimball reacted accordingly, head snapping forward. "What was that?" he shrieked, eyes bugging out, "What the hell was _that_?"

If I had to guess, I would say it was an invisible man just as agitated with this kid as I was.

But I kept that thought to myself.

"Thank you for your time." And for wasting mine. I gathered up the file and stood up, heading for the door.

"You're making a big mistake!" Clearly, he suffered from a bad case of the last word syndrome.

"We're not in the habit of making mistakes."

I let the door shut, cherishing the newfound absence of noise.

"What did you think?" I asked a freshly manifested Claude.

"You really get a kick out of this, don't you?" he smirked, lifting a brow. "Whole man of mystery thing."

"What man of mystery thing?"

"I have no intention of bein' amusing," he performed a highly inaccurate impression.

"I didn't."

He held my gaze with unyielding determination, and eventually I couldn't help but break into a grin.

"So tell me - do you practice that robot voice, or does it come naturally?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Classified information definitely had its appeal, especially around him.

As we went back to the upper levels of the building, I brought us back to the matter at hand, "You think he's telling the truth?"

"Don't know. He's a shifty little brat," he shrugged impassively. "Then again, he _is_ in college."

"True enough. You know, we can always let Thompson have a go at him."

"That's cruel, rookie," he reprimanded. A crooked smile came next, "I knew you had it in you."

The moment of pride was cut short as a sudden power outage made itself known.

Darkness fell, enforcing a moment of silence.

"How bad _are_ these budget cuts?"

Claude didn't answer right away.

"Emergency power should've gone up by now. Somethin's up." His composure changed instantly, turning business-like. "Stay here," he gave the familiar instruction. "I'll go check it out."

I waited for several minutes. Apparently, electricity had taken a day off, as it showed no intentions of returning anytime soon.

I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. Trying to make as little noise as possible, I followed it.

It was Kimball. He'd gotten out of his cell somehow.

I drew my gun, leaving it at ground level for now. I didn't want to spook him.

As he spun towards me, I realized he wasn't alone.

His hand was wrapped around Jenny's neck.

Then I noticed something else. There were sparks emerging from his fingertips. Electric sparks.

Holy shit.

"Let her go, Ethan."

"Don't go near me," his grip tightened, eyes glowing with a sickly blue light.

"Nobody is going to hurt you," I began the mantra, "You have to calm down. We'll sort this out."

He wasn't listening.

"You can't hold me here! I have rights!"

"That's true. You're right. But what you're doing isn't helping," I had to keep him focused on me, keep him occupied.

Kimball wasn't intent on being helpful, digging deep into paranoia. "Stay back!"

Things unfolded rapidly as Kimball spun around wildly, spiking up a surge of electricity around him as a sort of shield. There was a crackling noise, and Claude materialized next to him, flying a few feet back into the wall.

"Claude!" I called out. "Are you alright?"

He responded with a string of colorful curse words, grasping at his left arm as he scrambled back to his feet. Not seriously hurt, then.

"Ethan," I started again, putting additional emphasis on each word, "everything will be fine. Just don't do something you'll regret."

He turned his head back to me abruptly. The glow in his eyes had intensified, becoming nearly impossible to look directly at.

Jenny's eyes were closed, mouth moving silently.

Rationality had no chance of working here.

I had a clear shot.

My finger slid against the trigger. I took a steadying breath.

I didn't fire.

They needed him. Alive.

Everything went blindingly white. For a second, I thought I had died.

Then the smell of burnt flesh penetrated my senses.

I felt dizzy.

The image refocused gradually.

Jenny's body lay flat on the floor.

"Oh God oh God oh God oh," Kimball was chanting, in a near-trance, "I – I didn't mean – it was," he was shaking his head erratically, lower lip quivering, "It wasn't my fault. I'm s-" He was finally silenced by Claude, with a well placed right hook.

The silence proceeded to sizzle, violently static.

Claude kneeled down next to Jenny, pressing two fingers against her neck. He concluded the futile routine with a simple headshake.

I leaned against the wall, catching my breath. I didn't remember losing it.

Some time passed. I wasn't keeping track.

A cleanup crew was starting to work on the scene already.

Apparently I'd slid to the floor at some point, since I had to look up when Claude appeared beside me.

"Go home, Bennet. Take a break." His voice was thinly stretched between detachment and concern, "You need it."

I got up, struggling to make sense of his words. Everything seemed jumbled.

"What about-"

"I've got it covered."

I didn't have the energy to argue.

"Okay."

I stopped by my office to grab my coat, eradicating any arising thread of thought. Thinking was the last thing I needed to be doing.

I didn't drive home. Instead, I veered out of town, heading to the local shooting range.

It was mostly empty, which meant no interruptions. My first encounter with luck today.

My arm hadn't been this steady in years. The same went for my aim.

I wondered if the universe was mocking me.

"This is you takin' a break?"

I lowered the gun, turning around to find Claude, arms folded and a single eyebrow raised.

"This is you following me."

"Perceptive of you."

I didn't thank him for the compliment, and instead turned back to face the target, reassuming a firing position.

I finished the round without missing once.

"Where did you learn to shoot?" he inquired, seeking shelter in the neutrality of small talk.

"My father used to take me hunting." Nostalgia. "I hated it." I glanced back at him, holding the gun out, "Want to go a round?"

"I'll pass. Not much of a gun enthusiast."

Neither was I.

"How's your arm?"

"Twitchy," he admitted. "How're you doing?"

"Fine."

"Fine, huh?" From small talk to intrusive interrogation in three seconds. "What kind of fine would that be?"

"A _fine_ kind of fine, Claude."

"Can't file your feelings away in a little black box. It'll just end up blowin' up in your face. That, or you'll turn into a bloody machine."

There was something chillingly alluring about the latter prospect.

"Maybe it would be easier that way."

"Oh, it'd be easier alright," his voice grew harsh, sour. "Look at Thompson."

Point taken.

"So you want me to talk about my feelings?" I tried my best, but failed to keep the mocking tone at bay.

"I want you to _talk_. Don't much care what about."

I could do that.

"So how do you like the weather today, Claude?"

"Bennet…"

"What?" I did my best to sound normal, the result ending up trapped between strained impassiveness and agitation.

"You can't save everybody."

That went without saying.

"Not everybody deserves saving," I countered.

"Everybody deserves a chance."

"If you say so."

I reloaded and proceeded to empty the clip into the target's head. Again, not a single miss.

He moved closer, closing his hand around my wrist. This made him a great deal harder to ignore.

"It was a split second decision, Bennet, it wasn't your-"

I couldn't listen to any more of this.

"I knew what I was doing," I cut him off sharply. "It _was_ my choice, Claude. And I put the interests of The Company first."

The important part was left unsaid.

I picked the interests of The Company over a girl's life.

It was that simple.

What wasn't simple was everything else. The deep burning sensation in my chest, making me wonder if a premature heart attack was the way to go – not that it'd ever be this easy – the recurring flashes I couldn't tune out, the _goddamn smell_.

I turned away from him, loading a new clip.

When I looked back, I expected to find loathing or disappointment. He just looked tired.

"Sometimes there is no right choice," he muttered. "Just a bunch 'a bad ones."

"I'm aware of that."

"Good," he dispatched the word, not the meaning. "Gotta serve the greater good, right? Look at the big picture."

"The big picture," I repeated, my voice going numb. It wasn't the only thing. "Right."

The big picture. Wasn't it beautiful?

"I let a girl die today, Claude." She hadn't even known what Primatech was. It'd been a simple job for her, probably a temporary one. "And now I need to go home and talk to my wife about," I found the words trapped in the back of my throat, "abnormal paper clip sales."

"It was your first fatality," he noted distantly. "It gets easier with time. You start forgetting names, faces begin to mesh. That's the job. Eventually you just," he sounded as if he was ready to drift off, but he continued anyway, "stop caring."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"I can't _not care_, Claude."

He set me with a look usually reserved for test subjects. I had a vague suspicion that I was being judged.

"I know," he said finally, a softer yet somehow more significant edge attached to the words. "It doesn't get easier. You just learn to live with it."

The gun was growing heavier, striking an odd imbalance with the forces of gravity.

"What the hell was that about not caring?"

"It's called lying, Bennet."

I snorted. "I'm familiar with the concept. Any reason in particular?"

"Yeah."

Well, that was it, then.

"We're doing the right thing," he assured, battling the hesitance in his own voice. "Maybe not that, but at least," drawing a breath, he concluded, "the best thing."

The last part sounded genuine. Painfully genuine.

I had to believe it, too. It was the only way.

"I know that."

"I asked Thompson not to turn the kid into a dissecting frog. Said I'll vouch for him. Teach him."

"Really." I couldn't bring myself to say anything else. That was probably for the best. "What did he say?"

"Said he'll take my request under consideration." A faint sniff substituted for whatever display of humor he'd intended, "It's Thompson we're talkin' about."

"You really want to take that," I forced myself to use the mellowest word I could find, gritting my teeth through it, "bastard on?"

"_Want _has nothing to do with it."

It was a clarification, not a reprimand, but I still took it as one. There was no point in turning my anger on him.

It wasn't even _anger_. Not really.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."

It was just something he had to do. His way of living with it.

It was up to me to find mine.

"So how did she die?"

"The usual," he replied matter-of-factly. "Work accident."

"Do her parents know already?"

"Couldn't reach 'em. Out of the country on vacation."

Right. She'd told me that. An anniversary cruise.

"Who is going to tell them?"

"Well, Thompson usually-"

"I'll do it."

He nodded, understanding reflecting clearly in his eyes.

There was plenty of guilt to go around.

I finished the round and holstered the gun. It was enough for tonight.

I turned to Claude, pressing my lips together. I was hoping to sound offhand, but knew there was little chance of that, "She wants to have kids."

He remained motionless, his gaze stuck on me, finally coming up with a feeble "Ah."

"Yeah," I wasn't expecting a different reaction. "Can imagine it? Kids?" A hollow burst of laughter sounded - a perfect match to the lingering echo of gunfire. It originated from me, even though I only came to realize that a few seconds later. "Think about it. Bring your daughter to work day. That would be fun, wouldn't it?"

He furrowed his brow, outlining the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "Stall. Maybe she'll forget about it."

"She's not quite that forgetful."

He looked away, hands digging into his pockets.

After a period of uncomfortable silence, he spoke, forcing casualness into his words, "You thinking about it?"

The 'it' in question was definitely not children.

I wasn't sure I wanted to know what it was.

"About what?"

He let a pause hang, drawing additional tension into the atmosphere.

"Divorce."

That _word_. Slippery like a poison eel. Lurking silently at the very edge of your consciousness. The thought you always try to bypass by thinking anything at all, even if white noise is all you get in return.

The trigger.

I grabbed Claude by the collar of his shirt, slamming him into the wall.

"_What?_"

He barely responded. Didn't look particularly surprised. Not angry, not defensive. More apprehensive, in a blank sort of way.

"Just asking, friend."

The calmness of his voice contrasted with the muddled fogginess closing in on me. A persistent sting in the corners of my eyes that I had to blink it away, heavy breathing – _God dammit_ –some sort of sensory overload.

I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, searching for some steadying entity.

Nothing but a matter of control. Briefly lost, now regained.

Everything was under control.

"Of course not."

"Glad to hear it."

His face drawn in a mixture of weariness, sympathy, and something else I couldn't quite read.

I directed my gaze downwards, finding it exceedingly difficult to meet his.

"It's just-"

_She deserves better. _

Another thought I'd run from articulating for some time.

Not that I was ready to face it now.

I let it fade, wiping away a layer of sweat that had built across my forehead.

Claude glanced down, visually noting that I still held a grip on his shirt.

What the hell was the matter with me?

"I," Jesus. "I'm sorry. I overreacted. I shouldn't have-"

"That's alright," he interrupted, pressing his hand into my shoulder. He tossed a shadow of a grin into the mix. "At least you're still alive in there."

Alive. That was one way of putting it.

I shook my head, trying to exorcize the dim pounding in my ears. "Let's get out of here."

As we stepped outside, the chilly night air served a contrasting relief from the enduring aroma of gunpowder and… other smells, no less prominent.

We headed for the car, maintaining radio silence for a while.

When he rediscovered speech, it was clear he was searching for a topic as far away from this as possible. "So how did you-"

"You make noise, Claude." I glanced at him, "A lot of noise."

"Oh."

A faint smirk crossed his features.

"Do you have a cigarette?" I wondered.

"Don't smoke."

"Neither do I."

I studied the texture of the road ahead in great detail.

"You know…" I began, not entirely sure whether I was going to continue. Wasn't sure I wanted to. But I did. "I don't see it."

"See what?"

"The big picture."

"Yeah, well." His lip curved, teeth baring to form a bitter grin. "That's why it's the big picture."

And there it was.

The motivational poster of the day.

'The Big Picture

Does it even exist?'

I didn't think it would be the best fit for my office.


End file.
